Post by Abaddon on Jul 2, 2015 15:27:20 GMT -5
28 years ago
Michael had had a full day of kindergarten and playing with his friends, and it was finally time for bed. He snuggled up in his room, ready for a good, long nights sleep. Michael didn’t mind sleep, unlike most of the other kids he had known, because Michael loved to dream. He logged all of them in a dream journal he kept close to his bed. He would have to write them down as soon as he woke up, because he started to forget them the moment he woke up.
But he couldn’t really write or spell that well yet, after all he was only five, so he would draw pictures of what his dreams where. Lately, he had been having dreams of a magnificent winged beast who called himself Abaddon. In Michaels dreams, Abaddon would take Michael on long journeys with him to far off lands. It was something that Michael enjoyed thoroughly.
Abaddon would also speak to him about things Michael thought were way too advanced for his young age, but it still got him thinking. What actually did make something ‘evil’? Why did we have to define things as such? What on this earth is right and wrong? Do people deserve the punishment they get when they do bad things, and the rewards they get when they do good things? Abaddon would promise Michael every night before he left his dream and Michael woke up that Abaddon would protect him, and if anything bad ever happened to Michael, Abaddon would make sure to hold the people who hurt him responsible. It was a comforting thought to Michael, that someone was there to look out for him, even if only a dream…
10 years ago
Doctor: Um, excuse me, Office Stoch?
The police officer that had shoot Michael in the back had taken him to the hospital, and now was awaiting to see if the man was going to live or die.
Officer Stoch: Yes?
Doctor: Something…something strange is happening. Mr. Keffalo is awake…but…well…I suppose you just have to come see for yourself…
Three gun shots to the back and the man was awake? Stoch had to give a little credit to Michael. He walked into the room, pushing past the nurses who were surrounding Michael’s bed.
Michael: Hello Officer.
Doctor: As you can see he is completely responsive and seems to be doing rather well for a man who was shot in the back three times.
Michael: Thanks for that, by the way.
Officer Stoch: So I can take him to jail?
Doctor: But…officer…that’s not the strange thing, as strange as that is. No, the strange thing is…well look at this. He is hooked up to the heart monitor and it is-
Officer Stoch: Flat lining? How could that be…could this be a faulty piece of equipment?
Doctor: Well, we thought that too. Then we tested it…it works fine on everyone else.
Michael: Must be one of those phenomenons that you hear about so often, eh Doc, Officer? A little bit of the…supernatural, I suppose.
Officer Stoch looks down at Michael. He shakes his head at the criminal staring back at him.
Officer Stoch: How did you survive three shots to the back, Mr. Keffalo.
Michael: Oh, it is quite a story, Officer, but you know what, I don’t feel comfortable telling it in front of all these people.
Officer Stoch thinks about this for a moment…he puts his hand on his gun, remembering that he has a way to protect himself, and turns to the Doctor and nurses.
Officer Stoch: Ok, ok, everyone out. It needs to be just me and Mr. Keffalo right now, and I will let you know when you can come back in.
Doctor: But Off-
Officer Stoch: Doc, I am not asking.
The doctor, hesitant, exits the room behind the nurses who were in there. The two men, Officer Stoch and Michael Keffalo, were alone. Stoch grabs a chair from the other side of the room and slides it next to Michael, sitting in it.
Officer Stoch: Spill it.
Michael takes in a long, deep breath. He speaks, but his voice sounds a little more like a hiss than it usually does.
Michael: Officer, you shot me in the back and you expected me to die. Its not a nice thing to shoot someone in the back, Officer. In fact its almost damn cowardly. But I suppose I can understand it, you did tell me not to move or else you would shoot, and I moved, I guess. But you want to know the real reason, Officer, how I survived? The fact of the matter is, I didn’t.
Officer Stoch: What?
Michael: While the man you are looking at resembles Michael Keffalo, I am not him. His shell is empty, and I am using it now.
Officer Stoch: What are you talking about?
Stoch, getting nervous has his hand resting on his gun.
Michael: I mean I am not Michael Keffalo. You killed Michael Keffalo…and its time for me to keep my promise to him…
A scream and gunfire is heard from outside the room. The doctor runs to the door and begins to bang on it. It is locked and he cannot get it open, at least until the screaming stops. The moment the screaming ended, the door became easy to open. The sight inside the room was horrific, and graphic. Michael Keffalo was gone, and pieces of Officer Stoch lay all over. He had literally tore the man apart, limb for limb, and escaped.
Sara had decided to sleep at a friends house who still lived in the area. Ever since she had to divorce Michael, she had moved to Canada. MJ must have run away in the middle of the night and somehow caught a ride to Michigan to see his father. She noticed him gone during the day so she began searching for him, and found a note he had written her.
“Dear Mommy,
I miss daddy. I am going to go see him today. I have money and I will get there. Call you from his house.
Love,
Mikey Junior”
She now lay awake in the guest room of her friends house, holding the note to her heart, sobbing into the pillow. Her son’s remains were found in the fire, but very little of him. She didn’t know what to do, she became hysterical, hitting and punching anyone who was near her. The cops had to put cuffs on her, it had become so bad. Finally, Sara’s friend brought Sara to her house, where she could rest.
She heard a click come from the kitchen which was right outside her room. She didn’t think much of it, though, she was too worn out, too sad, she hoped it was what she thought it was. Michael. She sincerely hoped it was him, coming to finish the job he couldn’t one year ago. She was hoping he would walk in her room and look over her, she would pretend to be asleep. He would move closer, and when he got just close enough, she would stab him with the knife she kept on the night stand of any room she ever slept in. She would make him pay for what she did to their son.
The door slowly creaked open, and there was her friend, Michelle, standing there with a glass of milk. Sara let out a breath of relief.
Michelle: I am sorry about what happened tonight. I brought you some milk…maybe it will help? I don’t know.
Sara: Thanks.
Sara’s eyes grew wide as she looked at her friend. A dark figure appeared behind her and quickly put its hands on her chin and head, effectively twisting it and snapping her neck. Michael walked in over the friends dead body, and Sara, too scared to scream, fumbles for her knife on the night stand, and drops it on the ground. She goes to grab it but Michael steps on her hand, effectively keeping her from it, and he kicks the knife away.
Michael: Whats the matter Sara, are you SCARED?
He grabs her by the neck and picks her up out of bed, slamming her against the opposite wall. He runs his free hand up and down her side, and begins trying to pull off her pajama bottoms. She struggles.
Michael: Michael always said you were a good fuck, lets see if he was telling the truth.
She tries to kick him, but he is too powerful. He tears her pajama pants off and then goes for the next article, which would completely expose her. A shot is heard and he drops her on the ground and turns around. Standing there, Andrew, Sara’s friends husband, stands with a pistol. Michael lets out a high pitched, eerie scream before charging Andrew and shoving him into the cupboards in the kitchen. Andrew crashes hard through the wooden cabnets, shattering all the plates that were stored in there. Michael quickly grabs him by the collar and flips him up and over and straight through the oak wooden kitchen table. Andrew is layed out.
Sara watches as she struggles to regain her breath as Michael walks to the kitchen knife set and pulls out the biggest and sharpest knife. It gleams, sparkling even in the dead of night. Michael then walks over to Andrew, standing over him, aiming the knife.
Michael: You coveted Sara Keffalo ever since you met her. You were not in love with your wife, who by the destroyed the youth of America by running a popular pornographic website. You both have been judged.
And he thrusts the knife into Andrews stomach. Andrew lets out a gasp, then another, then another, with each thrust of the knife tearing into Andrew, his gasps get quieter and quieter until there are none anymore, and all you can hear is the squish of the knife entering flesh.
After 40 stabs, Michael throws down the knife and turns his attention back to Sara.
Michael: You know that’s the thing about people, Sara, every single one of them sin. Something so little as wanting to fuck your wifes friend, for example, can lead to the ultimate punishment. So what are your sins, Sara? Hmm? What is it that you have done that you need to make up for? Divorce is one of them. You divorced your loving husband, and now you are a sinner.
Sara: Stay away from me.
Michael: Oh, tsk tsk Sara. You don’t get to make the RULES!
At the same time she gets up and runs he dives at her and grabs her ankle, tripping her so she hits her head on the night stand. It makes things a little groggy for her, but it doesn’t knock her out. Michael resumes where he left off, ripping off her last layer of clothing, and thrusting himself into her. She protests, but its no use. Outside, the sound of police sirens can be heard.
Michael: Well, this was fun, lets do it again beautiful.
He licks her cheek, and then is gone just as soon as he appeared. Outside cops surround the house. The front door burst open and a dark shadow shoots out of it and into the distance. The cops don’t pay attention to that, they just storm the house. They find Andrew, then his wife…then Sara. Sara is sitting on the ground, the note from her son clutched to her heart, he knees up to her chest. She is rocking back and forth, singing…
Sara: You are my sunshine…my only sunshine…
Present Day
The scene opens on Abaddon pacing the ground in a small wooden cabin in the woods. The cabin looks as though it might have been boarded up at one point; there are wooden boards covering every window, and a smashed board that was covering the door. Upon entrance of the cabin, through the wrecked door, the smell of rot hits you hard in the face. The place seems so rotted it could fall apart at any instance. Going deeper in, through to the living room of the cabin, gang signs and general spray paint line the walls. Abaddon paces in this room, looking over all the spray paint.
Abaddon: This is where it all began, this small little cabin in the woods. Then the police thought it would be safer for the townsfolk if they boarded it up. Little to do the residents of New Baltimore, Michigan, know that its not the cabin that made all those people disappear…
He gets a very satisfying smile.
Abaddon: So Sunday at Blast didn’t seem to be my day, eh? No matter. I mean that sincerely, no matter. Wins. Loses. Titles. All arbitrary rewards for the wrestling type. I am not the wrestling type. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that about me. The most satisfying thing about my match was hurting Petrov, and before that, destroy Thomas Bates.
Just a special shout out for that man, real quick before I get into the meat of things. Thomas Bates, I have not forgotten you, I have not forgotten what you and your little group has done, I will never forget. Believe me when I say I still plan to punish you further than I did before. Nobody has ever roughed Thomas Bates around like that, and it won’t be the last time you get treated like the piece of shit rag doll you are. So sit on your high throne that you made up of delusions of kindness and decency, it’s only a matter of time before you have to pay the piper once again.
He waves his hand in front of a candle, and it sparks up a flame.
Abaddon: I don’t play nice with others. Especially others who are trying to be me. Diablo…do I even have to explain how that name symbolizes everything I stand for? And Kieran Redhead…
Diablo, I don’t know who you are. You are new. The only thing I really know about you is that you are from Chicago and you have Metallica as your entrance music, the same as me. Both of those things leads me to believe you are a sinner. I will make you a deal, though Diablo. Don’t get in my way and we won’t have a problem. Do as you are supposed to do and I won’t have to hurt you. Don’t you DARE try to play hero here and make some inaccurate and stupid name for yourself trying to show off your wrestling ‘ability’. Two things I need you to understand. 1. Petrov is mine. 2. You are not the ‘leader’ of this group of beings who are forced to team together this week. So don’t try to act like it.
He grabs what seems to be a dead rat and places it on a cutting board, and with one swift chop from a very large and sharp butcher knife, he cuts the head of the rat right off.
Abaddon: Kieran. Who do you think you are? I saw your little warning to me. You called me a false God? I never claimed to be a God, Kieran, I have only claimed to right the wrongs that WCF have plagued upon the world for 15 years. I promise to destroy those that don’t know how to do right with their lives, I suppose, with a little bit of karma. An eye for an eye, Kieran, a tooth for a tooth…that is how it goes, isn’t it? You are worthless to me. However, since I have agreed to play this game to get what I want, I suppose I won’t hurt you this time…as long as you stay out of the way. Don’t try to act like we are actually on a team Kieran, because the moment you do…that’s the moment I come after you. Understood? Good.
He drains the blood from the rat into a coffee mug, doing it so well that the coffee mug becomes full of rat blood. He throws the rest of it on the floor.
Abaddon: On the opposite team is a group of misfits who also want to be me. Petrov wishes he had my strength, Adam Blake wants to be a dark, dark character, and nobody wants to be off the grid, remain a nobody. It’s interesting that Seth Lerch, one of the biggest idiots this world has ever seen, would put five people in a match with one person who is everything the other five want to be. Is it a learning experience for them? Is it supposed to slow me down? Or was it a random match thrown together by picking names out of a hat? Either way, random or not, the three men on the opposite side should be scared. They should be terrified that each of them will eventually have to square off against me.
Petrov probably won’t be because he is a complete, hard headed, ‘fuck you buddy’, moron. Nobody, the person I know the least about, should be smart and take this opportunity to sit and learn how to be an ass kicker, such as I am. And Adam Blake…well…
He grabs, this time, a handful of grasshoppers out of a bag next to him and throws them down next to where he chopped off the unlucky rats head. He begins crushing them with the blunt side of the knife.
Abaddon: Adam Blake is the “Dark Atom” Adam Blake. Alliteration seems to be this man’s best friend, however he is one of the most random people I have ever met. He can’t decide if he wants to be a wrestler or a complete fucking mess of a person. He has the hottest temper of anyone in recent memory, and he isn’t afraid to show it. And as we all know so well, that is to be his down fall in any in ring appearance he will ever have.
It doesn’t help one bit to get angry in the ring. No, that is over rated. It isn’t the anger that is supposed to fuel you, dumbass, it’s the pure, raw, utter aggression you have that is supposed to fuel you. Let me explain the difference for you, Dark Atom. You see, you are going to come to the ring angry, flailing about as only a really angry person can. Your anger will blind you to any sort of opening you might have at doing damage, either to me or my ‘partners’. Anger is a very, very, very bad thing when you are in a competition, Dark Atom.
Raw aggression, however, is what makes normal, mediocre fighters such as you into great fighters. With aggression, you aren’t afraid to really hurt someone, but you are smart about it. You can see everything in front of you, you can spot the openings you need to dive right in and do the right amount of damage. You calculate, you plan, you destroy slowly but all of it is enjoyable for you. You are going to fail at Slam, Blake, plain and simple. I am going to destroy you from the inside out and when I am done with you, and only when I am done, will you be able to realize that you are nothing but a worthless turd clinging to a hair on the asshole of life. You, Dark Atom Adam Blake, are nothing but a dingle berry.
He crushes the last bit of grasshopper and sprinkles it into the brew that he is concocting so far with rats blood. He pulls out a few combs, each labeled Adam Blake, Nobody, and Petrov. He meticulously begins to pick some hair out of each of them.
Abaddon: Nobody. What to say about you? Probably nothing. You are a nobody now and you deserve to stay that way. You are nothing but a worthless sack of skin, and I hope you stay out of my way. Don’t be on the opposite end of the ring as me, unless you want a hell unleased on you like you have never felt before. However, you have already made two great mistakes in life in my eyes. One, you joined the most pathetic of all wrestling companies, the WCF. Second, you got paired on a team against me. You could have avoided that by not signing with the WCF. That was a dumb move on your part.
I am going to make you wish, Nobody, that you stayed a nobody forever. I am going to take you to hell and back, and then just for fun, I will take you right back to hell. I am going to take out a lot of misplaced aggression on you because, hey, that’s what punching bags are for, and that is all you are to me in this match, is a fucking punching bag. Be lucky I don’t just straight up murder you before the match so I don’t have to deal with you when it comes to show time. Be happy that I decided to play this game to get my message across.
He pulls out of the bag three small dolls, labeled “Adam Blake” “Nobody” and “Petrov”. He stuffs the hair into them and then pours his concoction into them as well.
Abaddon: Petrov, you are dumb. I don’t know how else to convey this to you. I have met you in the ring twice now, this will be the third time I have fought you. You and I have wrestled more times than most people who have long standing history together. Everytime you say something to the likes of “Hey I am going to win buddy fuck you” and then you lose. The first time I wrecked you. The second time I beat you up. The third time…well…I am going to kill you, Petrov. And not because you have done anything morally wrong, though I know you have. No, I am going to kill you because I simply don’t like you.
David Sanchez got in my way last time, Petrov, and he will be dealt with accordingly when the time comes. But for now, it’s just you and me, as far as I am concerned. I am going to end this little feud we have or don’t have here once and for all at Slam. You are such a big tough guy, but I am going to throw you around the ring like the little bitch you are. I am going to drop you on your head. I am going to drop you on your neck. I am going to break every little bone in your disgusting body…then I am going to snap your neck.
Have you ever snapped a neck, Petrov? I doubt it. It’s quite thrilling, quite exhilarating when you do it right. The snap is the best part. You get to hear, audibly, the sound of your victim dying just as fast as they were breathing the moment before. It’s my preferred method when I am using my own two hands. Petrov, fuck you Russian buddy, because I am going to fucking murder you on Sunday. You have just a few days left to live.
Abaddon takes the three dolls and throws them in the air, walking away. The camera zooms in on the dolls, suddenly they burst into flames. Burning strong and bright. Just as suddenly, however, the flame goes out, and what is left is the charcoaled remains of the dolls representing Petrov, Nobody, and Adam Blake. The scene cuts to static.
Michael had had a full day of kindergarten and playing with his friends, and it was finally time for bed. He snuggled up in his room, ready for a good, long nights sleep. Michael didn’t mind sleep, unlike most of the other kids he had known, because Michael loved to dream. He logged all of them in a dream journal he kept close to his bed. He would have to write them down as soon as he woke up, because he started to forget them the moment he woke up.
But he couldn’t really write or spell that well yet, after all he was only five, so he would draw pictures of what his dreams where. Lately, he had been having dreams of a magnificent winged beast who called himself Abaddon. In Michaels dreams, Abaddon would take Michael on long journeys with him to far off lands. It was something that Michael enjoyed thoroughly.
Abaddon would also speak to him about things Michael thought were way too advanced for his young age, but it still got him thinking. What actually did make something ‘evil’? Why did we have to define things as such? What on this earth is right and wrong? Do people deserve the punishment they get when they do bad things, and the rewards they get when they do good things? Abaddon would promise Michael every night before he left his dream and Michael woke up that Abaddon would protect him, and if anything bad ever happened to Michael, Abaddon would make sure to hold the people who hurt him responsible. It was a comforting thought to Michael, that someone was there to look out for him, even if only a dream…
10 years ago
Doctor: Um, excuse me, Office Stoch?
The police officer that had shoot Michael in the back had taken him to the hospital, and now was awaiting to see if the man was going to live or die.
Officer Stoch: Yes?
Doctor: Something…something strange is happening. Mr. Keffalo is awake…but…well…I suppose you just have to come see for yourself…
Three gun shots to the back and the man was awake? Stoch had to give a little credit to Michael. He walked into the room, pushing past the nurses who were surrounding Michael’s bed.
Michael: Hello Officer.
Doctor: As you can see he is completely responsive and seems to be doing rather well for a man who was shot in the back three times.
Michael: Thanks for that, by the way.
Officer Stoch: So I can take him to jail?
Doctor: But…officer…that’s not the strange thing, as strange as that is. No, the strange thing is…well look at this. He is hooked up to the heart monitor and it is-
Officer Stoch: Flat lining? How could that be…could this be a faulty piece of equipment?
Doctor: Well, we thought that too. Then we tested it…it works fine on everyone else.
Michael: Must be one of those phenomenons that you hear about so often, eh Doc, Officer? A little bit of the…supernatural, I suppose.
Officer Stoch looks down at Michael. He shakes his head at the criminal staring back at him.
Officer Stoch: How did you survive three shots to the back, Mr. Keffalo.
Michael: Oh, it is quite a story, Officer, but you know what, I don’t feel comfortable telling it in front of all these people.
Officer Stoch thinks about this for a moment…he puts his hand on his gun, remembering that he has a way to protect himself, and turns to the Doctor and nurses.
Officer Stoch: Ok, ok, everyone out. It needs to be just me and Mr. Keffalo right now, and I will let you know when you can come back in.
Doctor: But Off-
Officer Stoch: Doc, I am not asking.
The doctor, hesitant, exits the room behind the nurses who were in there. The two men, Officer Stoch and Michael Keffalo, were alone. Stoch grabs a chair from the other side of the room and slides it next to Michael, sitting in it.
Officer Stoch: Spill it.
Michael takes in a long, deep breath. He speaks, but his voice sounds a little more like a hiss than it usually does.
Michael: Officer, you shot me in the back and you expected me to die. Its not a nice thing to shoot someone in the back, Officer. In fact its almost damn cowardly. But I suppose I can understand it, you did tell me not to move or else you would shoot, and I moved, I guess. But you want to know the real reason, Officer, how I survived? The fact of the matter is, I didn’t.
Officer Stoch: What?
Michael: While the man you are looking at resembles Michael Keffalo, I am not him. His shell is empty, and I am using it now.
Officer Stoch: What are you talking about?
Stoch, getting nervous has his hand resting on his gun.
Michael: I mean I am not Michael Keffalo. You killed Michael Keffalo…and its time for me to keep my promise to him…
A scream and gunfire is heard from outside the room. The doctor runs to the door and begins to bang on it. It is locked and he cannot get it open, at least until the screaming stops. The moment the screaming ended, the door became easy to open. The sight inside the room was horrific, and graphic. Michael Keffalo was gone, and pieces of Officer Stoch lay all over. He had literally tore the man apart, limb for limb, and escaped.
Sara had decided to sleep at a friends house who still lived in the area. Ever since she had to divorce Michael, she had moved to Canada. MJ must have run away in the middle of the night and somehow caught a ride to Michigan to see his father. She noticed him gone during the day so she began searching for him, and found a note he had written her.
“Dear Mommy,
I miss daddy. I am going to go see him today. I have money and I will get there. Call you from his house.
Love,
Mikey Junior”
She now lay awake in the guest room of her friends house, holding the note to her heart, sobbing into the pillow. Her son’s remains were found in the fire, but very little of him. She didn’t know what to do, she became hysterical, hitting and punching anyone who was near her. The cops had to put cuffs on her, it had become so bad. Finally, Sara’s friend brought Sara to her house, where she could rest.
She heard a click come from the kitchen which was right outside her room. She didn’t think much of it, though, she was too worn out, too sad, she hoped it was what she thought it was. Michael. She sincerely hoped it was him, coming to finish the job he couldn’t one year ago. She was hoping he would walk in her room and look over her, she would pretend to be asleep. He would move closer, and when he got just close enough, she would stab him with the knife she kept on the night stand of any room she ever slept in. She would make him pay for what she did to their son.
The door slowly creaked open, and there was her friend, Michelle, standing there with a glass of milk. Sara let out a breath of relief.
Michelle: I am sorry about what happened tonight. I brought you some milk…maybe it will help? I don’t know.
Sara: Thanks.
Sara’s eyes grew wide as she looked at her friend. A dark figure appeared behind her and quickly put its hands on her chin and head, effectively twisting it and snapping her neck. Michael walked in over the friends dead body, and Sara, too scared to scream, fumbles for her knife on the night stand, and drops it on the ground. She goes to grab it but Michael steps on her hand, effectively keeping her from it, and he kicks the knife away.
Michael: Whats the matter Sara, are you SCARED?
He grabs her by the neck and picks her up out of bed, slamming her against the opposite wall. He runs his free hand up and down her side, and begins trying to pull off her pajama bottoms. She struggles.
Michael: Michael always said you were a good fuck, lets see if he was telling the truth.
She tries to kick him, but he is too powerful. He tears her pajama pants off and then goes for the next article, which would completely expose her. A shot is heard and he drops her on the ground and turns around. Standing there, Andrew, Sara’s friends husband, stands with a pistol. Michael lets out a high pitched, eerie scream before charging Andrew and shoving him into the cupboards in the kitchen. Andrew crashes hard through the wooden cabnets, shattering all the plates that were stored in there. Michael quickly grabs him by the collar and flips him up and over and straight through the oak wooden kitchen table. Andrew is layed out.
Sara watches as she struggles to regain her breath as Michael walks to the kitchen knife set and pulls out the biggest and sharpest knife. It gleams, sparkling even in the dead of night. Michael then walks over to Andrew, standing over him, aiming the knife.
Michael: You coveted Sara Keffalo ever since you met her. You were not in love with your wife, who by the destroyed the youth of America by running a popular pornographic website. You both have been judged.
And he thrusts the knife into Andrews stomach. Andrew lets out a gasp, then another, then another, with each thrust of the knife tearing into Andrew, his gasps get quieter and quieter until there are none anymore, and all you can hear is the squish of the knife entering flesh.
After 40 stabs, Michael throws down the knife and turns his attention back to Sara.
Michael: You know that’s the thing about people, Sara, every single one of them sin. Something so little as wanting to fuck your wifes friend, for example, can lead to the ultimate punishment. So what are your sins, Sara? Hmm? What is it that you have done that you need to make up for? Divorce is one of them. You divorced your loving husband, and now you are a sinner.
Sara: Stay away from me.
Michael: Oh, tsk tsk Sara. You don’t get to make the RULES!
At the same time she gets up and runs he dives at her and grabs her ankle, tripping her so she hits her head on the night stand. It makes things a little groggy for her, but it doesn’t knock her out. Michael resumes where he left off, ripping off her last layer of clothing, and thrusting himself into her. She protests, but its no use. Outside, the sound of police sirens can be heard.
Michael: Well, this was fun, lets do it again beautiful.
He licks her cheek, and then is gone just as soon as he appeared. Outside cops surround the house. The front door burst open and a dark shadow shoots out of it and into the distance. The cops don’t pay attention to that, they just storm the house. They find Andrew, then his wife…then Sara. Sara is sitting on the ground, the note from her son clutched to her heart, he knees up to her chest. She is rocking back and forth, singing…
Sara: You are my sunshine…my only sunshine…
Present Day
The scene opens on Abaddon pacing the ground in a small wooden cabin in the woods. The cabin looks as though it might have been boarded up at one point; there are wooden boards covering every window, and a smashed board that was covering the door. Upon entrance of the cabin, through the wrecked door, the smell of rot hits you hard in the face. The place seems so rotted it could fall apart at any instance. Going deeper in, through to the living room of the cabin, gang signs and general spray paint line the walls. Abaddon paces in this room, looking over all the spray paint.
Abaddon: This is where it all began, this small little cabin in the woods. Then the police thought it would be safer for the townsfolk if they boarded it up. Little to do the residents of New Baltimore, Michigan, know that its not the cabin that made all those people disappear…
He gets a very satisfying smile.
Abaddon: So Sunday at Blast didn’t seem to be my day, eh? No matter. I mean that sincerely, no matter. Wins. Loses. Titles. All arbitrary rewards for the wrestling type. I am not the wrestling type. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that about me. The most satisfying thing about my match was hurting Petrov, and before that, destroy Thomas Bates.
Just a special shout out for that man, real quick before I get into the meat of things. Thomas Bates, I have not forgotten you, I have not forgotten what you and your little group has done, I will never forget. Believe me when I say I still plan to punish you further than I did before. Nobody has ever roughed Thomas Bates around like that, and it won’t be the last time you get treated like the piece of shit rag doll you are. So sit on your high throne that you made up of delusions of kindness and decency, it’s only a matter of time before you have to pay the piper once again.
He waves his hand in front of a candle, and it sparks up a flame.
Abaddon: I don’t play nice with others. Especially others who are trying to be me. Diablo…do I even have to explain how that name symbolizes everything I stand for? And Kieran Redhead…
Diablo, I don’t know who you are. You are new. The only thing I really know about you is that you are from Chicago and you have Metallica as your entrance music, the same as me. Both of those things leads me to believe you are a sinner. I will make you a deal, though Diablo. Don’t get in my way and we won’t have a problem. Do as you are supposed to do and I won’t have to hurt you. Don’t you DARE try to play hero here and make some inaccurate and stupid name for yourself trying to show off your wrestling ‘ability’. Two things I need you to understand. 1. Petrov is mine. 2. You are not the ‘leader’ of this group of beings who are forced to team together this week. So don’t try to act like it.
He grabs what seems to be a dead rat and places it on a cutting board, and with one swift chop from a very large and sharp butcher knife, he cuts the head of the rat right off.
Abaddon: Kieran. Who do you think you are? I saw your little warning to me. You called me a false God? I never claimed to be a God, Kieran, I have only claimed to right the wrongs that WCF have plagued upon the world for 15 years. I promise to destroy those that don’t know how to do right with their lives, I suppose, with a little bit of karma. An eye for an eye, Kieran, a tooth for a tooth…that is how it goes, isn’t it? You are worthless to me. However, since I have agreed to play this game to get what I want, I suppose I won’t hurt you this time…as long as you stay out of the way. Don’t try to act like we are actually on a team Kieran, because the moment you do…that’s the moment I come after you. Understood? Good.
He drains the blood from the rat into a coffee mug, doing it so well that the coffee mug becomes full of rat blood. He throws the rest of it on the floor.
Abaddon: On the opposite team is a group of misfits who also want to be me. Petrov wishes he had my strength, Adam Blake wants to be a dark, dark character, and nobody wants to be off the grid, remain a nobody. It’s interesting that Seth Lerch, one of the biggest idiots this world has ever seen, would put five people in a match with one person who is everything the other five want to be. Is it a learning experience for them? Is it supposed to slow me down? Or was it a random match thrown together by picking names out of a hat? Either way, random or not, the three men on the opposite side should be scared. They should be terrified that each of them will eventually have to square off against me.
Petrov probably won’t be because he is a complete, hard headed, ‘fuck you buddy’, moron. Nobody, the person I know the least about, should be smart and take this opportunity to sit and learn how to be an ass kicker, such as I am. And Adam Blake…well…
He grabs, this time, a handful of grasshoppers out of a bag next to him and throws them down next to where he chopped off the unlucky rats head. He begins crushing them with the blunt side of the knife.
Abaddon: Adam Blake is the “Dark Atom” Adam Blake. Alliteration seems to be this man’s best friend, however he is one of the most random people I have ever met. He can’t decide if he wants to be a wrestler or a complete fucking mess of a person. He has the hottest temper of anyone in recent memory, and he isn’t afraid to show it. And as we all know so well, that is to be his down fall in any in ring appearance he will ever have.
It doesn’t help one bit to get angry in the ring. No, that is over rated. It isn’t the anger that is supposed to fuel you, dumbass, it’s the pure, raw, utter aggression you have that is supposed to fuel you. Let me explain the difference for you, Dark Atom. You see, you are going to come to the ring angry, flailing about as only a really angry person can. Your anger will blind you to any sort of opening you might have at doing damage, either to me or my ‘partners’. Anger is a very, very, very bad thing when you are in a competition, Dark Atom.
Raw aggression, however, is what makes normal, mediocre fighters such as you into great fighters. With aggression, you aren’t afraid to really hurt someone, but you are smart about it. You can see everything in front of you, you can spot the openings you need to dive right in and do the right amount of damage. You calculate, you plan, you destroy slowly but all of it is enjoyable for you. You are going to fail at Slam, Blake, plain and simple. I am going to destroy you from the inside out and when I am done with you, and only when I am done, will you be able to realize that you are nothing but a worthless turd clinging to a hair on the asshole of life. You, Dark Atom Adam Blake, are nothing but a dingle berry.
He crushes the last bit of grasshopper and sprinkles it into the brew that he is concocting so far with rats blood. He pulls out a few combs, each labeled Adam Blake, Nobody, and Petrov. He meticulously begins to pick some hair out of each of them.
Abaddon: Nobody. What to say about you? Probably nothing. You are a nobody now and you deserve to stay that way. You are nothing but a worthless sack of skin, and I hope you stay out of my way. Don’t be on the opposite end of the ring as me, unless you want a hell unleased on you like you have never felt before. However, you have already made two great mistakes in life in my eyes. One, you joined the most pathetic of all wrestling companies, the WCF. Second, you got paired on a team against me. You could have avoided that by not signing with the WCF. That was a dumb move on your part.
I am going to make you wish, Nobody, that you stayed a nobody forever. I am going to take you to hell and back, and then just for fun, I will take you right back to hell. I am going to take out a lot of misplaced aggression on you because, hey, that’s what punching bags are for, and that is all you are to me in this match, is a fucking punching bag. Be lucky I don’t just straight up murder you before the match so I don’t have to deal with you when it comes to show time. Be happy that I decided to play this game to get my message across.
He pulls out of the bag three small dolls, labeled “Adam Blake” “Nobody” and “Petrov”. He stuffs the hair into them and then pours his concoction into them as well.
Abaddon: Petrov, you are dumb. I don’t know how else to convey this to you. I have met you in the ring twice now, this will be the third time I have fought you. You and I have wrestled more times than most people who have long standing history together. Everytime you say something to the likes of “Hey I am going to win buddy fuck you” and then you lose. The first time I wrecked you. The second time I beat you up. The third time…well…I am going to kill you, Petrov. And not because you have done anything morally wrong, though I know you have. No, I am going to kill you because I simply don’t like you.
David Sanchez got in my way last time, Petrov, and he will be dealt with accordingly when the time comes. But for now, it’s just you and me, as far as I am concerned. I am going to end this little feud we have or don’t have here once and for all at Slam. You are such a big tough guy, but I am going to throw you around the ring like the little bitch you are. I am going to drop you on your head. I am going to drop you on your neck. I am going to break every little bone in your disgusting body…then I am going to snap your neck.
Have you ever snapped a neck, Petrov? I doubt it. It’s quite thrilling, quite exhilarating when you do it right. The snap is the best part. You get to hear, audibly, the sound of your victim dying just as fast as they were breathing the moment before. It’s my preferred method when I am using my own two hands. Petrov, fuck you Russian buddy, because I am going to fucking murder you on Sunday. You have just a few days left to live.
Abaddon takes the three dolls and throws them in the air, walking away. The camera zooms in on the dolls, suddenly they burst into flames. Burning strong and bright. Just as suddenly, however, the flame goes out, and what is left is the charcoaled remains of the dolls representing Petrov, Nobody, and Adam Blake. The scene cuts to static.